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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



Books in Prose by 

ROBERT BRIDGES 

(Droch) 

••• 

OVERHEARD IN ARCADY 

Dialogues about Howells, James, Al- 
drich, Stockton, Davis, Crawford, Kip- 
ling, Meredith, Stevenson, Barrie. Illus- 
trated, Fourth Edition, $1.25. 

SUPPRESSED CHAPTERS, 

AND OTHER BOOKISHNESS 

Contents : Suppressed Chapters — Ar- 
cadian Letters — Novels that Everybody 
Read — The Literary Partition of Scot- 
land — Friends in Arcady — Arcadian 
Opinions. Third Edition, $1.25. 



Bramble Brae 



Bramble Brae 



By 

Robert Bridges 



ki 

(Droch) 



New York 

Charles Scribner's Sons 

1902 



THE LIBRARY Of 

CONGRESS, 
Two Copies ftfccsvTO 

MAR. 14 1902 

COFYBWHT WTRY 

CLASS cC XXa No. 

ift n 

«U*Y A. 



"ft 2>^ ' 



Copyright, 1902, by 
Charles Scribner's Soks 

Published March, IQ02 



The DeVinne Press 



>3f o mp f atfjct 

You called the old farm Bramble Brae, 
And loved it till your hair was gray 
And footsteps faltered while you trod 
The sloping upland bright with sod. 
It blossomed in your quiet life 
With go wans from the Neuk of Fife; 
And while you walked the waving wheat 
You dreamed of heather and the peat. 
You've gane awa! My spirit yearns 
To hear you read the songs of Burns; 
The melody I've faintly caught 
Is just the lesson that you taught. 
If any hear your gentle voice 
In verse of mine, then I'll rejoice 
And sing along my stumbling way, 
"He's home again in Bramble Brae!" 



CONTENTS 



BETWEEN TWO WORLDS 

PAGE 

The Unillumined Verge i 

From One Long Dead 4 

Father to Mother 6 

The Child to the Father 8 

A Prayer of Old Age 10 

The Rhone Glacier — Sunset 14 

James McCosh 17 

Le Bonheur de ce Monde (Plantin) 18 

The Happiness of this World {Translation) .... 19 

R. L. S 20 

McGlFFEN 22 

At the Farragut Statue 25 

News from a Missing Liner 27 

For a Classmate Dead at Sea 29 



BRAMBLE BRAE 

A Toast to our Native Land 33 

The Towers of Princeton 34 

ix 



x CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Roosevelt in Wyoming 36 

Uncle Sam to Kipling 38 

A New Year's Wish for Those Who Write . . 40 

To Chloe 42 

To the Elf on my Calendar .... i ... . 43 

Caprice 44 

Retrospect 46 

In the Crowd 47 

Remembrance 48 

Off Fort Hamilton in Summer 49 

Over the Ferry , 50 

Bramble Brae in October , . 52 



WITH FLOWERS 

On a Spray of Heather 57 

The Hothouse Violet Speaks , . . . 59 

A Song 61 

What the Flowers Said 63 

Diana's Valentine 65 

With Some Birthday Roses 67 

WRITTEN IN BOOKS 

In a Volume of Herrick 71 

In "Shakespeare's Sonnets" 73 

In "Sonnets from the Portuguese" 74 

In George Meredith's Poems 75 



CONTENTS xi 

PAGB 

In "The King's Lyrics" 76 

The Song of Tembinoka, King of Apemama . . 77 

In the Manner of Kipling 79 

For a Novel of Hall Caine's 80 

In " Helbeck of Bannisdale " 81 

A Christmas Greeting 82 

In Nicholson's " Almanac of Sports" 83 

In Nicholson's "City Types" 84 

In " The Golden Treasury" 85 

A Valentine 86 

In "Hallo, my Fancy!" 87 

The Book Speaks 88 

In Herford's Verses . 89 

In a Book of Gibson's Drawings 90 

In a Volume of Miss Guiney's Poems 91 

In " Barbara Frietchie — A Play" 92 

To C. H. M. and H. H. M 94 

To my Mother 96 

A Book's Soliloquy 97 

Envoy 99 



BETWEEN TWO WORLDS 



On the dark decline of the unillumined 
verge between the two worlds. 

George Meredith. 



THE UNILLUMINED VERGE 

TO A FRIEND DYING 

They tell you that Death's at the turn of the road, 
That under the shade of a cypress you'll find him, 

And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad 
Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him. 



I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill, 
And we'll talk of the way we have come through 
the valley ; 

Down below there a bird breaks into a trill, 

And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley. 



You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave- 
" Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing! 
Yet it's joyful to live, and it's hard to be brave 
When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is 
going." 



We are almost there — our last walk on this height — 
I must bid you good-by at that cross on the 
mountain. 

See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light 
Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain ! 



And it shines in your face and illumines your soul ; 

We are comrades as ever, right here at your going ; 
You may rest if you will within sight of the goal, 

While I must return to my oar and the rowing. 



We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a 
friend ; 
I will keep you in sight till the road makes its 
turning 
Just over the ridge within reach of the end 

Of your arduous toil — the beginning of learning. 



You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge, 
"Au revoir!" and "good night!" while the twilight 

is creeping 
Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge? 
Yes, I hear your faint voice : " This is rest, and like 
sleeping!" 



FROM ONE LONG DEAD 

What ! Yon here in the moonlight and thinking 
of me? 
Is it you, O my comrade, who laughed at my jest ? 
But you wept when I told you I longed to be free, 
And you mourned for a while when they laid me 
at rest. 



I've been dead all these years ! and to-night in your 
heart 

There's a stir of emotion, a vision that slips — 
It's my face in the moonlight that gives you a start, 

It's my name that in joy rushes up to your lips! 



Yes, I'm young, oh, so young, and so little I know ! 

A mere child that is learning to walk and to run ; 
While I grasp at the shadows that wave to and fro 

I am dazzled a bit by the light of the Sun. 



4 



I am learning the lesson, I try to grow wise, 

But at night I am baffled and worn by the strife ; 

I am humbled, and then there's an impulse to rise, 
And a voice whispers, " Onward and win! This 
is Life!" 



And the Force that is drawing me up to the Height, 
That inspires me and thrills me, — each day a new 
birth, — 
Is the Force that to Chaos said, " Let there be Light ! " 
And it gave us sweet glimpses of Heaven on 
Earth. 



It is Love ! and you know it and feel it, my Soul ! 

For you love me in spite of the grave and its bars. 
And it moves the whole Universe on to its goal, 

And it draws frail Humanity up to the stars ! 



FATHER TO MOTHER 

This is our child, Dear — flesh of our flesh and bone 

of our bone ; 
Here is the end of our youth, and now we begin to 

atone. 
Now we do feel what their love was — those who have 

reared us and taught; 
Now do we know of the treasures that neither are 

sold nor bought. 
Here is the joy of the Race — joy that must grow 

out of pain ; 
Here is the last of our Self — now we are links in the 

chain. 
Body of yours and mine no more is the measure of 

grief — 
All that he suffers is ours — and increased while we 

cry for relief; 



Yea, for our boy, our Beloved, we'll yearn through 

the beckoning years — 
Toil for him, laugh with him, struggle, and pour out 

the fountain of tears ! 



THE CHILD TO THE FATHER 

Father, it's your love that safely guides me, 
Always it's around me, night and day ; 

It shelters me, and soothes, but never chides me 
Yet, father, there's a shadow in my way. 



All the day, my father, I am playing 

Under trees where sunbeams dance and dart- 

But often just at night when I am praying 
I feel this awful hunger in my heart. 



Father, there is something — it has missed me ; 

I've felt it through my little days and years ; 
And even when you petted me and kissed me 

I've cried myself to sleep with burning tears. 



To-day I saw a child and mother walking ; 

I caught a gentle shining in her eye, 
And music in her voice when she was talking- 

Oh, father, is it that that makes me cry ? 



Oh, never can I put my arms around her, 
Or never cuddle closer in the night ; 

Mother, oh, my mother! I've not found her — 
I look for her and cry from dark to light ! 



A PRAYER OF OLD AGE 

O LORD, I am so used to all the byways 

Throughout Thy devious world, 
The little hill-paths, yea, and the great highways 

Where saints are safely whirled ! 
And there are crooked ways, forbidden pleasures, 

That lured me with their spell ; 
But there I lingered not, and found no treasures — 

Though in the mire I fell. 



And now I'm old and worn, and, scarcely seeing 

The beauties of Thy work, 
I catch faint glimpses of the shadows fleeing 

Through valleys in the murk; 
Yet I can feel my way — my mem'ry guides me; 

I bear the yoke and smile. 
I'm used to life, and nothing wounds or chides me ; 

Lord, let me live awhile! 



10 



And then, dear Lord, I still can feel the thrilling 

Of Nature in the Spring — 
The uplift of Thy hills, the song-birds trilling, 

The lyric joy they bring. 
I'm not too old to see the regal beauty 

Of moon and stars and sun; 
Nature can still reveal to me mv duty 

Till my long task is done. 



Lord, to me the pageant is entrancing — 
The march of States and Kings! 

1 keenly watch the human race advancing 

And see Man master Things : 
From him who read the secret of the thunder 

And made the lightning kind, 
Down to this marvel — all the growing wonder 

Of force controlled by Mind. 



ii 



And this dear land of ours, the freeman's Nation ! 

Lord, let me live and see 
Fulfilment of our fathers' aspiration, 

When each man's really free! 
When all the strength and skill that move the 
mountains, 

And pile up riches great, 
Shall sweeten patriotism at its fountains 

And purify the State! 



But there are closer ties than these that bind me 

And make me long to stay 
And linger in the dusk where Death may find me 

On Thine own chosen day ; 
There's one who walks beside me in the gloaming 

And holds my faltering hand — 
Without her guidance I can make no homing 

In any distant land. 



12 



Some day when we are tired, like children playing, 

And wearied drop our toys — 
When all the work and burden of our staying 

Has mingled with our joys — 
With those we love around — our eyelids drooping, 

Too spent with toil to weep — 
Like some kind nurse o'er drowsy children stooping, 

Lord, take us home to sleep ! 



13 



THE RHONE GLACIER — SUNSET 

Like the uncounted years of God it rolls 
From out the sky. The light of heaven shines 
Upon its wrinkled brow, that seems a part 
Of that stupendous dome of boundless blue 
Where, like a pebble in the ocean depths, 
This little world is lost. The sparkling sun 
Plays gently in the deep green, icy clefts 
Like moonlight in the tender eyes of one 
Who looks to heaven to find her lover's face. 
Silent, serene, implacable it stands — 
A mighty symbol of the Force that moved 
Across the surface of the youthful earth 
And scored the continents with valleys deep, 
As children write upon the yielding sand. 
Back to the dawn of things its lineage runs- — 
Countless ages back to that bleak time 



14 



When frightful monsters played upon the hills — 
Always the same, yet moving slowly onward, 
In heaven its head, its feet upon the world. 
The Rhone that trickles from the glacier's edge — 
Makes valleys smile with grain and flower and fruit 
And turns the wheels that forge the tools of trade — 
Is but the lash with which the giant plays 
And spins the tops that swarm with struggling 
men. 
" What is Man, that Thou art mindful of him?" — 
This pleasure or this pain, this wealth or want, 
This tragic comedy we call our life ! 



Across the meadows as the evening falls 
A shepherd drives his sheep, and fondly bears 
Above the rocky stream the weakling lamb ; 
The children hear the father's kindly voice 
And run to greet and cheer his late return, 
While from his humble cottage gleams a light. 



*5 



The sheep are nestled in their sheltering fold — 
The door springs open to a welcome cry, 
And all at last are safe within the Home. 



In cold and awful majesty it stands 
Against the darkening sky, — Force without 

warmth, 
Strength without passion. 

But at the touch 
Of homely human ways its terrors flee 
And Force is swallowed up in Life with Love. 



16 



JAMES McCOSH 

1811-1894 

YOUNG to the end through sympathy with youth, 
Gray man of learning — champion of truth ! 
Direct in rugged speech, alert in mind, 
He felt his kinship with all humankind, 
And never feared to trace development 
Of high from low — assured and full content 
That man paid homage to the Mind above, 
Uplifted by the " Royal Law of Love." 



The laws of nature that he loved to trace 
Have worked, at last, to veil from us his face ; 
The dear old elms and ivy-covered walls 
Will miss his presence, and the stately halls 
His trumpet- voice ; while in their joys 
Sorrow will shadow those he called " my boys " ! 



17 



LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE 

(Copie d'un sonnet compos6 par Plantin au XVI s siecle.) 

Avoir tine maifon commode, propre & belle, 

Un jardin tapiffe d'efpaliers odorans, 

Des fruits, d'excellent vin, peu de train, peu d'enfans, 

Poffeder feul, fans bruit, une femme fidele. 

N'avoir dettes, amour, ni proces, ni querelle, 

Ni de partage a faire avecque fes parens, 

Se contenter de peu, n'efperer rien des Grands, 

Regler tous fes deffeins sur un jufte modele. 



Vivre avecque franchife & fans ambition, 
S'adonner fans fcrupule a la devotion, 
Domter fes paffions, les rendre obeiffantes. 
Conferver l'efprit libre, & le jugement fort, 
Dire fon Chapelet en cultivant fes entes, 
C'eft attendre chez foi bien doucement la mort. 



18 



THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD 

FROM THE FRENCH OF PLANTIN 

To have a home, convenient for thy life, 
With fragrant fruit-walls in a garden fine, 
Some children, some retainers, and rare wine ; 

To live serenely with thy faithful wife ; 

To have no debts, nor quarrels, nor legal strife, 
Nor separation from dear kin of thine ; 
Expecting nothing from the Great, to shine 

With modest light and just, where greed is rife. 



To live with freedom, yet to be devout, 
Ruling thy well-curbed passions — and without 

Ambition's scourge to thwart thy regnant will ; 
Truly to worship God with ardent breath 

Among His shrubs and trees on plain and hill — 
Thus pleasantly shalt thou at home wait Death. 



19 



R. L. S. 

" Where hath fleeting Beauty led? 
To the doorway of the dead. 1 * 
All the way you followed her 
Tripping through the palms and fir ; 
All the way around you flew 
Splendid spirits from the blue — 
Dreams and visions lightly caught 
In the meshes of your thought. 
What a glorious retinue 
Made that arduous chase with you ! 
Half the world stood still to see 
Song and Fancy follow free 
At the waving of your wand — 
While the echoing hills respond 
To your voice. 



20 



And now the race 
Ends with your averted face ; 
At full effort you have sped 
Through that doorway of the dead- 
But the hills and woods remain 
Peopled from your teeming brain! 
All that stately company 
Linger where their eyes may see 
Beauty fling the laurel o'er, 
At the closing of the door! 

From Suppressed Chapters. 



21 



McGIFFEN 

THE HERO COMING HOME 

His body was clad in his uniform of Captain in the Chinese Navy, 
and sent home to his mother at Washington, Pennsylvania. 

Associated Press. 

I LENT him to my country, 

And he wore the Navy blue; 
I bade him do his duty, 

And he said he would be true. 



It's home they say you're coming — 

And it's home you came to me 
When you wore your first blue jacket 

At the old Academy. 
And the neighbors said, " How handsome ! 

What a sailor he will be!" 
But I only drew him closer 

In my coddling mother's joy, 
And said, "Well, what's a sailor? 

He's my brave boy ! " 



22 



And then they told the story 
Of his courage in the fight — 

How he ruled a heathen war-ship 
And fought it with his might. 



It's home he wrote his mother 

When the smoke had cleared away : 
" I can see — so don't you worry — 

Though I'm riddled by the fray." 
And the neighbors said, " How glorious ! 

What a Hero is your son ! 
The world is all a-talking 

Of the battle that he won!" 
I said, "Well, what's a Hero? 

He's my brave son!" 



23 



And now to me he's coming, 
And he wears a Captain's bars ; 

It's a foreign nation's uniform, 
But wrapped in Stripes and Stars. 



It's home at last you're coming, 

And it's home at last to me. 
You're a hero and immortal, 

And you fought to make men free. 
But your heart is cold within you 

And your dear eyes cannot see! 
They say, " Be strong, O mother; 

Proud laurels crown his head!" 
Alas, what's left of glory ? 

My boy, my boy is dead! 



24 



AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE 

To live a hero, then to stand 

In bronze serene above the city's throng; 
Hero at sea, and now on land 

Revered by thousands as they rush along 



If these were all the gifts of fame — 
To be a shade amid alert reality, 

And win a statue and a name — 

How cold and cheerless immortality ! 



But when the sun shines in the Square, 

And multitudes are swarming in the street, 

Children are always gathered there, 

Laughing and playing round the hero's feet. 



25 



And in the crisis of the game — 

With boyish grit and ardor it is played- 
You'll hear some youngster call his name 
" The Admiral — he never was afraid ! " 



And so the hero daily lives, 

And boys grow braver as the Man they see ! 
The inspiration that he gives 

Still helps to make them loyal, strong, and free ! 



26 



NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER 

TO A CONVALESCENT 

CRAWLING back to port again, half her cargo shifted, 
Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier ; 

Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted, 
Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning 
clear! 



Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she 
floundered — 
Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights 
were near; 
All the world believed her lost ; men despaired, but 
wondered 
How the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there 
to steer! 



27 



Now she makes her harbor- lights, glides through seas 
enchanted — 
Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier ; 
On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn — undaunted ! 
" Welcome back to life again!" Hear the people 
cheer! 



28 



FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA 

(w. F. stoutenburgh) 

His voice was gentle and his eyes were kind ; 

No one among us but did call him friend ; 
Fond woman's heart and student's thoughtful mind 

Together in him did with fitness blend : 
And now he is no more ! 



We blindly murmur at the bitter Fate 

That summoned him in other lands to roam; 

And when upon him Sickness wrought its hate 

Half round the world, it brought him almost home, 
To die when near our shore. 



29 



We blindly murmur — but we only know 
Calm rests his body in old Ocean's deeps ; 

While we are groping in the mists below, 
Serene his soul on other, cloudless steeps — 
Forever — evermore. 



BRAMBLE BRAE 



A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND 

Huge and alert, irascible yet strong, 
We make our fitful way 'mid right and wrong. 
One time we pour out millions to be free, 
Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea ! 
One time we strike the shackles from the slaves, 
And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves. 
Often we rudely break restraining bars, 
And confidently reach out toward the stars. 



Yet under all there flows a hidden stream 

Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream 

Of Washington and Franklin, men of old 

Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold. 

This is the Land we love, our heritage, 

Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage 

And full of promise — destined to be great. 

Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State! 



33 



THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON 

FROM THE TRAIN 

There they are! above the green trees shining — 
Old towers that top the castles of our dreams, 

Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining — 
A painted glory on the window gleams. 



But, oh, the messages to travellers weary 
They signal through the ether in the dark ! 

The years are long, the path is steep and dreary, 
But there's a bell that struck in boyhood — hark ! 



The note is faint — but ghosts are gayly trooping 
From ivied halls and swarming 'neath the trees. 

Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping — 
Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze ! 



34 



They're gone in dusk, — the towers and dreams are 
faded, — 
But something lingers of eternal Youth ; 
We're strong again, though doubting, worn, and 
jaded ; 
We pledge anew to friends and love and truth ! 



35 



ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING 

TOLD BY A GUIDE-— 1899 x 

Do you know Yancey's ? Where the winding trail 
From Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage 
road, 

And wagons from Cooke City and the mail 
Unhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load? 



A handy bunch of men are round the stove 

At Yancey's — hunters back from Jackson's Hole, 

And Ed Hough telling of a mighty drove 
Of elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl. 



And Yancey he says : " Mr. Woody, there, 
Can tell a hunting yarn or two — beside, 

He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bear 

And six bull elk with antlers spreading wide." 

1 Tall, silent old Woody, a fine type of the fast- vanishing race of 
;ame-hunters and Indian-fighters. 

Roosevelt's The Wilderness Hunter. 

36 



But Woody is a guide who does n't brag; 
He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said 
" I knew he'd put the Spaniards in a bag, 

For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head. 



" That man won't slosh around in politics 
And waste his time a-killing little game ; 
He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks, 
And when he picks a head he hits the same." 



Now, down at Yancey's every man's a sport, 
And free to back his knowledge up with lead ; 

And each believes that Roosevelt is the sort 
To run the State, because he "picks a head." 



37 



UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING 

(1899) 

Take up the White Man's burden ! 

Have done with childish days. 

R. K. 

Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling, 

For showing us the way 
To buckle down to business 

And end our " childish day." 
We know we're young and frisky 

And haven't too much sense — 
At least, not in the measure 

We'll have a few years hence. 



Now, this same " White Man's burden " 

You're asking us to tote 
Is not so unfamiliar 

As you're inclined to note. 
We freed three million negroes, 

Their babies and their wives ; 
It cost a billion dollars 

And near a million lives! 



38 



And while we were a-flghting 
In all those " thankless years " 

We did not get much helping — 
Well, not from English "peers. 1 

And so — with best intentions — 
We're not exactly wild 

To free the Filipino, 
" Half devil and half child." 



Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling; 

Though not disposed to groan 
About the "White Man's burden," 

We've troubles of our own ; 
Enough to keep us busy 

When English friends inquire, 
" Why don't you use your talons ? 

There are chestnuts in the fire / " 



39 



A NEW YEAR'S WISH FOR THOSE 
WHO WRITE 

In this time of joy and cheer 

When we greet the buoyant year, 

Now, old friends, we cherish you, 

Bless the dreams you've brought to view — 

Kindly fancy, happy thought, 

Visions from the fairies caught, 

Rhyme and story, song and play, 

Fantasy for holiday — 

All the treasures of your mind 

Spent to make the world more kind. 



While we grope in dark and fog, 
Flounder onward through the bog, 
You, serene upon the height, 
Gambol in the cheery light — 
Toss your laughter from the steep, 
Bringing hope to those who weep. 
What fair visions brightly gleam 
Through cloud-rifts! Your dearest dream 
Clothed in beauty on the peak, 
Waiting for the Muse to speak. 

40 



Here's our wish at New Year's time, 
Faint-expressed in halting rhyme : 
For the men who dream and write 
Make the future clear and bright ; 
Thaw the cynic from their heart — 
Love and faith are highest Art. 
Let them picture with their pen 
Not our manners but our men. 
Bless them all at New Year's tide ! 
May their skill and fame abide ! 
And all women — charming, bright - 
Grant that they may never write ! 



41 



TO CHLOE 



FOR A MENDED GLOVE 



FAIR Chloe looked upon the old torn glove, 

Then touched its ragged edges with her fingers, 

And lo ! the rent was closed — as if for love 

Sweet healing follows where her touch but lingers. 



If all the rents that follow Chloe's eyes, 
And all the hearts despairingly defended, 

Were healed so soon — we'd straightway realize 
That love and life are good as new when mended. 



42 



TO THE ELF ON MY CALENDAR 

Sweet Elf, you'll pipe a merry tune, 
Make days and months all gladness ; 

The clear, bright note you sound in June 
Will cheer December's sadness. 



You'll never pout on rainy days, 
Nor when it's cold will shiver, 

But sit serene and sing your lays. 
May Old Time bless the giver! 



43 



CAPRICE 

Love laughed awhile, 
And ridiculed my daring 

To rashly crave a smile 

From her, heart-whole, uncaring. 
Oh, how Love laughed! 



Love angry grew 

And spoiled her pretty features ; 
I was — she vowed it true — 

The most despised of creatures. 
Oh, how Love frowned ! 



Love dropped a tear, 

Her anger with it falling; 

I felt her blue eyes clear, 

My heart and hopes enthralling. 
Oh, how Love cried ! 



44 



Her tears Love dried, 

And then she looked up sweetly ; 
No more her glance defied — 

I pressed my suit discreetly. 
Love kissed me then! 



45 



RETROSPECT 

At evening, when the breeze dies down, 
And regal Nature doffs her crown, 
When brown-limbed pines, like minarets, 
Fringe all the hills, and tired day frets 
To rest awhile — ah, then, I know, 
Into a shadowed room you go, 
And softly touch the organ keys ; 
While pale stars blink amid the trees 
You sing a peaceful vesper hymn 
That rises from your full heart's brim ; 
Your kindly eyes are dimmed with tears - 
You wander through remembered years ; 
From gay to grave your fancies fly, 
And end the journey with the cry: 
My heart played truant from my willl . 
I loved him then — / love him still. 



46 



IN THE CROWD 

A PAIR of brown eyes — no matter where, 

In quiet street or crowded thoroughfare — 

Call up the image of your face to me. 

All others vanish, only you I see ; 

Above the din of trade your voice I hear, 

And merry laughter, ringing sweet and clear, 

That fades into a smile away : 

Thus are you with me everywhere and every day. 



47 



REMEMBRANCE 

No, not despair of ever quite forgetting 

The happy romance of those dreamy years, 
The painful weariness of vain regretting 

Through all life's varied way of love and tears- 
Not this the gladness of my heart represses, 

With shadow tinges still each sunny thought : 
The fancy that with poignant touch distresses 

Is that by thee I am perhaps forgot! 



48 



OFF FORT HAMILTON IN SUMMER 

Embrasured guns, like wearied hounds, all sleeping, 
Their muzzles resting on the cool, green turf ; 

Along the Fort their peaceful watch now keeping 
Above the mimic battle of the surf. 



And you, dear one, now that my suit is ended — 
Let passion slumber in your cool dark eyes ; 

The wiles by which your heart was well defended 
Embrasured there look love on summer skies. 



49 



OVER THE FERRY 

ONOMATOPOETIC 

Clang! Ting-a-ling! 

Then a scream of the whistle. 
Sob! Sob! Sob! Sob! 
Heaves slowly the breast of the iron-sinewed giant ; 
And the swift paddles fling, 
Like the down of a thistle, 
White foam from their blades, while the waters defiant 
Groan under their merciless tread ; and the throb 
Of the heart grows exultingly faster; 
Now a race with a tug, and then it is past her— 
Glides under the bow of a stately Cunarder — 
The steel-lunged giant breathing harder and harder 
While nearing the wharves of the City of Vanity 
To roll from its shoulders the load of humanity. 
And up near the bow, with arms crossed on the railing, 
The bold wind with kisses her fair cheeks assailing 
And tossing her hair from her brow, stands sweet 

Jennie, 
Who hopes on the way to the school to meet Bennie. 



So 



And what he will say she is anticipating — 
Her heart full of pleasure, her blue eyes dilating ; 
And what will she say? Ah, now she is blushing. 
There he stands on the pier! How the people are 

crushing ! 
While out from the dock the churned waters are 

rushing. 
But the song of the wheels is, " I love him — I love 
him!" 

Then the pilot above 

Signals " Clang ! Ting-a-ling ! " 
And the slowing wheels sing, 
" Oh, my love — love — love!" 
Clang ! 



5i 



BRAMBLE BRAE IN OCTOBER 

And now the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae, 
And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn's fray ; 
The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown, 
Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the light 
And huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown. 
Along the lane the quail are running in fright 
At sound of guns on the upland — the cautious dogs 
Are coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed men 
Watch for the whir of wings ; the hickory logs 
Are falling down in the clearing, while in their pen 
The big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough ; 
In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels 

cough 
And chatter and screech — chasing each other from 

limb 
To limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees. 
And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of him 
Glows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn 

breeze. 



52 



Down in the valley the ancient village rests, 
Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street ; 
High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crests 
Are carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet, 
Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth ; 
For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad, 
And sometimes rich in the wealth of truth 
That speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad. 
For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girl 
Except for him ; she sits and waits by a climbing vine, 
Reading the verses of some old bard ; the pearl 
She seeks is love, and only love is the wine 
That colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyes 
But the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong day 
That love and his lady are proof against all surprise — 
So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away. 



53 



Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there ; 

Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees ; 

Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care — 

The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze. 

Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill — 

Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled; 

Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill, 

Mem::;- lives, but all of his hopes are dead. 

Years has he wandered over the land and sea; 

Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved ; 

Always that vision haunted his fancy free — 

The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved. 

Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep, 

Dotted with lights that break through the evening 

gloom ; 
Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deep 
Cover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb. 



54 



WITH FLOWERS 



ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER 

Far from its native moorland 

Or crest of " wine-red " hill, 
At sight or scent of heather 

The hearts of Scotsmen thrill. 
Though crushed its purple blossoms, 

Its tender stems turned brown, 
It brings romantic Highlands 

Into prosaic town. 
The clans are on the border, 

The chiefs are in the fray ; 
We're keen upon their footsteps 

With Walter Scott to-day. 
Peat smoke from lowland cottage 

Floats curling up, and turns 
Our dreams toward quiet hearthstones 

And melodies of Burns. 



57 



And last our fancy lingers 
With fond regret and vain 

Where sleeps our Tusitala 
Beneath the tropic rain — 

Far from the purple heather 
Or gleaming rowan bough, 

Alone on mountain summit, 
" Our hearts remember how." 



St. Andrew's Day. 



58 



THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS 



TO A FAIR WOMAN 



I'VE calmly lived my sunny little life 
Under the crinkling glass, and free from strife; 
The sky above and all around is blue, 
And from this haven now I come to you. 



Fair Lady, tell me have I heard aright 
That other flowers do not live so bright? 
That in dark forests and by noisy streams 
The pale wood violet sheds its purple beams ? 



While we are merry in this fireside glow 
My humble cousin shivers in the snow; 
And yet a cricket whispered once to me 
That /the captive was — my cousin, free! 



59 



Sometimes I've dreamed the cricket told me true ; 
I've longed for freedom and the pleasing view 
Of moss-grown hummocks and great whispering 

trees, 
With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze. 



The dream is over — I have lived my day- 
Nourished in sun with other violets gay ; 
And now I'm borne afar to Paradise, 
To find my haven in your gentle eyes. 



If I may touch your lips I'll die content 
Without one glimpse of freedom or days spent 
In woodland dells ; oh, murmur, while I fade, 
Your own sweet mem'ries of the forest glade! 



Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass ; 
What ! You too captive in a house of glass ? 



60 



A SONG 

WITH A RED ROSE ON HER BIRTHDAY 

What the Rose thought : 

Oh, to be one-and-twenty ! 
But I am a rose that must bloom for a day ; 
My life is like color and perfume in May ; 
To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair, 
And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair. 

Oh, to be one-and-twenty! 



What She sang, exultingly : 

Oh, to be one-and-twenty ! 
To feel that the glorious days of my youth 
Are only the promise of hope, love, and truth — 
That all joyful things in my bright future gleam, 
And I am to live them and find out my dream. 

Oh, to be one-and-twenty! 



61 



What He wrote, sadly : 

Oh, to be one-and-twenty ! 
To dream that the great world is still all my own, 
And cherish again the ideals that have flown ; 
To follow them, hiding with cunning and art, 
And find them all sleeping within her warm heart, 

Her heart that is one-and-twenty! 



62 



WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID 

Here are roses, red and white, 
Each to speak what I would write ; 
For, when in your quiet room 
You may smell their sweet perfume, 
I shall whisper through these flowers 
Fancy's thoughts for evening hours. 
Then, when in the crowded street 
You and I may chance to meet, 
I'll discover in your eyes 
What you've half expressed in sighs ; 
For if in your dusky hair 
One red rose you deign to wear 
I shall say, " I know that she 
Wears it for her love of me." 



63 



But if on your gentle breast 
One white rose may dare to rest, 
Then in rapture I'll declare, 

" That's my heart a-resting there." 
But if neither red nor white 
May your hair or gown bedight, 
Still with confidence I'll say, 

" That is lovely woman's way — 
What of life is largest part 
Hides she deepest in her heart!" 



64 



DIANA'S VALENTINE 

WITH A BUNCH OF VIOLETS 

Good Saint Valentine, I pray, 
While around this town you stray. 
You will keep your eyes alert 
For a maid who loves to flirt. 

If among the hurrying crowd — 
Beauties fair and beauties proud — 
You should see one like a queen, 
Eyes of blue, with golden sheen 
In her hair that's flecked with brown, 
And a grace about her gown, 
Thafs Diana ! 

Catch her eye 
As she's gayly tripping by ; 
Say you know a sorry wight, 
Slow of speech and slow to write, 



65 



Who would tell her through these flowers 
That her eyes are bright as stars 
In the blue ; that her speech 
Haunts his mem'ry (out of reach 
Like their perfume faint but fine) ; 
That her laugh is like rare wine. 
As you leave her touch her lips ; 
Say that men are like old ships, 
Easy towed, but hard to steer; 
Then just whisper in her ear, 
" Lovers change, but friends are true 
Like these violets." Then, "Adieu." 



This, Saint Valentine, I pray, 
On the morning of that day 
When yon keep your eyes alert 
For all maids who love to flirt. 

Arcady, February fourteenth. 



66 



WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES 

If I were not a speechless flower 
I'd like to talk with you an hour 
And whisper many pretty things 
That thinking of your birthday brings. 



(For flowers can dream of happiness 
While you their velvet petals press ! ) 
But I can't talk — I know a man 
Who often vainly thinks he can, 



And what he wanted me to do 
Was simply to look fair to you 
And wish you joy — and then surprise 
The gentle look in your dear eyes. 



67 



WRITTEN IN BOOKS 



IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK 

Dear old worldling gone astray, 
You would rather sing than pray ; 
While you wore the preacher's gown 
How you longed for London Town ! 
When your head ached, then, alack ! 
You, repentant, gave up sack; 
Old and worn you ruthlessly 
Bade farewell to poesy; 
Full, you never cared for food, 
Sated, you were always good. 
Julia's beauties you rehearse, 
Sing her charms in wanton verse, 
But to make poor Julia thine 
Not one pleasure you'd resign. 
Flattering, you tried to please ; 
Generous, you loved your ease! 



7i 



Dear old Herrick, you're a Man 
Built upon the human plan ; 
To the world your fame belongs 
For the beauty of your songs- 
Glorious poet — not a saint — 
Lyric splendor without taint! 



72 



IN "SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS" 

The Sonnets — bound by Riviere 

And newly illustrated! 
As though the words that Shakespeare wrote 

By outward dress are rated ! 



The soul — the fine, immortal part 
That lives without the binding, 

Is something from the poet's heart ; 
'Tis here — and worth the finding. 



73 



IN "SONNETS FROM THE 
PORTUGUESE" 

In this book a woman wrote her heart — 
Etching there the image of a Man. 

Faithful woman ! But the years depart, 
And love is dust, and life a broken span ! 



74 



IN GEORGE MEREDITH'S POEMS 

Here is a forest tangle — 
Rank weeds, luxuriant ferns, and giant trees, 

All in a hoarse- voiced wrangle, 
With creaking branches swaying in the breeze. 

But if you care to listen, 
Above the noise you'll hear the piping of a bird, 

Gay feathers in the tree-tops glisten, 
And over all the sweetest music ever heard. 



75 



IN "THE KING'S LYRICS" 

BEHOLD " The Lyrics of the King " ! 
As though a crown on those who sing 

Could make their music sweeter! 
To-day we'll choose the better part — 
The gentle music of the heart 

That masters rhyme and metre. 



76 



THE SONG OF TEMBINOKA, KING OF 

APEMAMA 

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

SlNG, my warriors, sing ! men of the sharklike race ! 
Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to 

face. 
He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic 

isles, 
Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and 

smiles — 
Meet as brothers, though singing words that are 

strange and proud. 
Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud ; 
But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language 

nor skin — 
To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole 

world kin. 



77 



The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like 

braves to the death — 
Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of 

our breath ! 
Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike 

race! 
Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to 

face! 

From Overheard in A ready. 



78 



IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING 

" Show me the face of Truth," the Sahib said— 
"Show me its beauty, before I'm dead!" 
"Look!" said the priest, "with unflinching eyes; 

This is the World, and not Paradise. 

Look ! It is wicked, and cruel, and strong, and 
wise!" 

From Overheard in Arcady, 



79 



FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE'S 



AFTER KIPLING 



He sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid 

paint, 
And draws the Thing as it isn't for the God of Things 

as they ain't! 



80 



IN "HELBECK OF BANNISDALE" 

The foolish story of a man and maid 
Who loved each other but were dire afraid 
To follow where their true hearts surely led 
And, risking all things, bravely to be wed. 



What's in a creed to keep two souls apart? 
The universal solvent is the heart! 



81 



A CHRISTMAS GREETING 

Good luck, good cheer, throughout the year! 

A bright fire on the hearthstone burning; 
A gleam of rose at evening's close 

When, wearied, you are homeward turning! 
By ingle-nook a soothing book — 

A few old friends in Mem'ry's castle ; 
A bit of rhyme at Christmas-time 

To wish you fortune at your wassail! 



82 



IN NICHOLSON'S "ALMANAC OF 
SPORTS " 

(WITH VERSES BY KIPLING) 

In all your Calendar of Sports 

Why, Rudyard, do you slight the wheel? 
Were you, then, never out of sorts 

Until you felt the vibrant steel 
Skim over miles of level track ? 

For youth, with all its hope and cheer, 
When we're a-wheel comes rolling back — 

And it is Summer all the year! 



83 



IN NICHOLSON'S "CITY TYPES" 

The City's roar is rising from the street ; 

The old, bedraggled " types " are shuffling through 

the strife; 
They plod and push, and elbow as they meet, 
And glare and grin, and sadly call it "life." 



For us the fireside hearth is all aglow, 

And those we love make up the life we know. 



8 4 



IN "THE GOLDEN TREASURY" 

The year is old, the way is far ; 
I catch your image like a star 
That's mirrored in a crystal brook ; 
For love of you I send a book ! 



85 



A VALENTINE 

Though all the streams are white with frost 

And all the fields with snow, 
Though earth its greenery has lost, 

And biting gales do blow — 
Still I'll recall the summer hours, 

The blue skies and the vine — 
The hillsides pink with Alpine flowers 

To greet my Valentine! 



86 



IN "HALLO, MY FANCY!" 

(BY CHARLES HENRY LUDERS AND S. D. S., JR.) 

" HALLO, my Fancy ! View Hallo ! " 

The nimble game has broken cover 
And skims the valley to and fro ; 

By cooling brooks it seems to hover, 
Then bounds along. " Ho, View Hallo ! " 

The huntsmen cry from brake to loch ; 
The chase grows ardent — "View Hallo!" 

From quiet shelter echoes, Droch. 



87 



THE BOOK SPEAKS 

TO EUGENE FIELD 

I'M keeping jolly comp'ny 

In a room that's full of books ; 
I'm cheek by jowl with Horace 

And a lot of ancient crooks. 
But the boys I like to play with, 

When the boss takes off his coat, 
Are the wild and woolly heroes 

From Casey's tabble-dote. 
And when the lamp is lighted 

And cosey hours ensue, 
I talk with All-Aloney 

And the little Boy in Blue. 
But when the man that owns the books 

Throws one kind glance at me 
I sing just like the Dinkey 

In the Amfelula Tree. 



88 



IN HERFORD'S VERSES 

To weep with those who weep is human ; 

We give our praises to the man of grit, 
And honor with our trust the true man; 

Let's laugh a little with a man of wit ! 



89 



IN A BOOK OF GIBSON'S DRAWINGS 

You may turn these pages over, 

Looking for the priceless pearl ; 
You may search from back to cover 

For the finest Gibson girl. 
You can save yourself the trouble — 

It's no earthly use to look : 
The charming girl who takes the medal 

Is a-holding of the book. 



90 



IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY'S 

POEMS 

A MAKER of smooth verse and facile rhymes, 
And lover of quaint legends from old times ; 
A joyous singer in New England bleak — 
Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek. 



91 



IN "BARBARA FRIETCHIE — A PLAY" 

TO J. M. 

We met her first in Arcady, 

Where visions fair are apt to be, 

Roaming beneath the arching trees — 

Her laughter cheering up the breeze ; 

Sometimes as gay as Colinette, 

Then fond and sad as Juliet. 

And when we'd had enough of anguish 

She'd make us laugh as Lydia Languish. 

No mask or mood was twice the same — 

Yet one fair face behind each name. 

As that bright vixen of the mind, 

The fascinating Rosalind — 

As Imogen or Viola, 

Or, best of all, sweet Barbara — 

Always the same alluring grace 

And wit that sparkles in her face ! 



92 



The road to Arcady is far 
And sometimes lonely for a star — 
But all the phantoms of the air 
And poets' dreams that wander there 
Would miss the welcome we extend, 
Not to her Art — just to a friend! 



93 



TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M. 

Here is the story — 

I haven't half told it; 
The fun and the glory, 

A volume can't hold it. 
But this is a spray, 

Withered leaves and pressed flowers, 
From a faded bouquet 

That was plucked in gay hours, 
Within sound of the waves 

Of the gentle Pacific, 
Where Nature enslaves 

And the days beatific 
Are sandalled with gold 

And wear gems on their fingers. 
All the tale is not told 

Which slow Fancy weaves, 
But a faint odor lingers 

About these dry leaves 



94 



That may bring recollection 

Of prairie and loch 
With a hint of affection 
From 

Yours ever, 

Droch. 

Dedication of The Monterey Wedding* 



95 



TO MY MOTHER 

Long years you've kept the door ajar 
To greet me, coming from afar ; 
Long years in my accustomed place 
I've read my welcome in your face, 
And felt the sunlight of your love 
Drive back the years and gently move 
The telltale shadow 'round to youth. 
You've found the very spring, in truth, 
That baffles time — the kindling joy 
That keeps me in your heart a boy. 
And now I send an unknown guest 
To bide with you and snugly rest 
Beside the old home's ingle-nook. — 
For love of me you'll love my book. 

Dedication of Overheard in Arcady. 



96 



A BOOK'S SOLILOQUY 

My lady's room is full of books 
And easy-chairs and curtained nooks, 
And dainty tea-things on a table, 
And poetry, and tale, and fable, 
And on the hearth a crackling fire 
That welcome gives, and when you tire 
Of pleasant talk you still may find 
A tempting pasture where the mind 
May browse awhile, and read the pages 
Which poets wrote, or fools, or sages. 



And here I come to ask a place 
Among these worthies, face to face ! 
To be allowed on some low shelf 
To rest and dream, and pride myself 
On being in such company — 
To watch fair women drinking tea ; 



97 



And if, perchance, on some lone day, 
The gentle mistress looks my way 
And softly says, " Now I shall see 
What's going on in Arcady ! " 
Then I'll rejoice that I'm a book 
At which my lady deigns to look. 



98 



ENVOY 

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS FLOCK 

The sun is warm upon the ridges now ; 

The way was rough and steep ; 
I'll seek the shelter of a leafy bough 

And watch my grazing sheep. 
The smoke is rising from the valley there, 

The hum of wheels and trade ; 
The stress of life is in the whirling air 

While I pipe in the shade. 
Where work is fierce amid the striving throng 

And music's voice is mute, 
Some one may catch the echo of a song — 

The faint note of a lute. 



99 



MAR 1 4 1902 






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